Palace (30 page)

‘Probably not. At some point Cardinal Roha will want to talk with you, but it’s up to Brother Dav to set that appointment up. You’re going to need to hire staff, and very soon.’

‘Really? But what am I going to pay them with?’

‘Well, Roha told me yesterday that he’d take care of things until the trust fund got straightened out. The order has funds from somewhere, he said, for this kind of thing. It’ll be an interest-free loan.’

‘That’s great! I’ll have to thank him. He’s sure been awfully kind to me. I wonder why?’

‘All I know is that your father was a friend of his.’

Her father. There he was again, Vida thought, the mysterious figure of Orin L’Var, who was simultaneously a traitor and a friend of priests. She would have to look at those files, sooner or later. There would be vidclips of her father, audio of his public speeches. She could see and hear him. Eventually.

‘What are you going to do this morning?’ Samante said.

‘Well, I don’t know. Study the databases, I suppose. There’s an awful lot of stuff about Government House that I don’t know.’

‘The more you do know, the safer you’ll be.’ Samante helped herself to a roll flecked with bright red seeds. ‘I hope I’m not stuffing myself too much?’

‘What? Of course not.’

‘Thank you. I’m supposed to have lunch with Uncle Wilso today, and that means a pretty meagre spread. He pinches every credit he earns, at least twice.’

‘Why is he inviting you, then?’

‘I don’t know. Something unpleasant, I’ll bet. If you’d like, I’ll stop by here afterwards.’

‘I would, yes, and thank you. But I must be keeping you away from your work.’

‘I’m between jobs. When you start out as an interpreter, it takes you a while to find a good place. You get hired for all kinds of temporary jobs at first. You know how it goes on Palace. Being a Not-child’s all very well, but until you’re at least fifty...’ She shrugged. ‘The guildmasters have all the secure posts, not a journeyman like me.’

And that, Vida supposed, explained why a meagre lunch made a difference to Samante, and why she’d brought an old dress for the reception.

Wilso apparently offered Samante not just a cheap lunch but a short one as well. Vida spent the morning sitting cross-legged in a white silk chair and studying screens of data, memorizing as she went - first the L’Var holdings, down to the last credit that was a matter of public record; then the inheritance laws; finally the records of the entire thirteen years of legal proceedings against Vanna and her counter-suits in turn. Once Vida had those safely stowed in her memory, she took a plateful of leftover breakfast rolls, balanced it in her lap, and called up another important batch of files that Calios had discovered, an informal list and description of the sapients living in Government House in general and in particular the twin towers.

She was assuming that she’d have several hours before Samante returned, but she’d just started the profiles of the Peronidas when the door alarm buzzed, and a tiny image of Samante appeared in one corner of the screen. The interpreter’s face was flushed, and her eyes seemed swollen. Vida gulped down her mouthful of bread.

‘Open!’

The door slid back to let Samante enter, arranging as she did so a bright, tense smile.

‘What’s wrong?’ Vida said. ‘The lunch must have been awful.’

‘The lunch was one glass of wine and a few crackers.’ Samante threw her sling-sack onto the divan so hard that cushions flew. ‘Why did Aunt Halla have to marry him? I hate him so much, I don’t even care who’s snooping to hear it!’ She flopped into a chair near Vida’s. ‘He had a permanent position for me, he said.’

‘And it was something loath?’ Vida held out the plate of breads.

‘Thank you.’ Samante took a large fruit roll, but she only held it. ‘I have been reassigned to you as your factor.’

‘Really? But, that’s great! I mean, well isn’t it?’

‘I’m an interpreter, damn it all! Vida, it’s not you. Do please understand that. But I’ve trained all my life to be a bridge between languages, to understand the thoughts under the words, to find common ground between sapients. I even thought once ... I thought, maybe I’d be the one to find a new sapient race and learn their language. And now what? I’m to be your factor. Your glorified secretary, keeping your appointments, making dinner reservations, answering interview requests, buying clothes.’

‘I’m sorry, I really am. You don’t have to be my factor, do you? I’ll understand if you just tell him no.’

‘I can’t just tell him no.’ Samante laughed, but it was a bitter, cracked little sound.

‘Because of the money?’

‘Mostly, yes. I have none of my own. The Dinisa clan never had money, only brains and a grand old genotype. Then my aunt married that beastly little bigot. What choice do I have about my posting? I’m not a chief patron like Wilso is. I’m not even an heir. My mother died in a wiretrain accident, and my father never had any grasp of finances. If not for my dear law-uncle Wilso - well, I wouldn’t have even been allowed to train as an interpreter, let alone get a posting to Government House. He spent all last night at the reception getting this appointment for me - calling in favours, making political promises, that kind of thing. If I turn it down now, he might ship me off to some empty Ag Sect to teach a patron’s children how to sound cultured, or make me a translator at the saccule market - anything.’

‘There’s one thing I don’t get. Why does he want you to take this job?’

‘For the influence, Vida. Come along - think! You’re going to be rich. You’re going to be the First Citizen’s lawdaughter. Cardinal Roha himself is taking an interest in you. If I’m your factor, then the Dinisa clan has something to bargain with - access to you.’

‘Oh.’ Vida felt her stomach twist, but for her own sake, not Samante’s. ‘And if I told Wilso that I didn’t want you?’

‘It would be worse. He might even unguild me. I told you that I was well-trained, didn’t I?

You told me that I was like a pet dog, didn’t you? Why do you think I was so irked by that?

Well, now I have to do what my master says.’

Samante remembered her fruit roll and bit into it savagely. When pastry flakes scattered she let them fall. Vida glanced at the screen-full of profiles.

‘Clear. Resume landscape programming.’

Both women stared at a night view of the phosphorescent seas of equatorial Souk. In the background Hirrel sang like limpid flutes.

‘All right,’ Vida said at last. ‘So, you’re going to be my factor, whether you want to or not. Or, rather, you’re going to do all the things a factor does - for now. You’re really my interpreter. I mean, the Chief Interpreter of the L’Var clan.’

Samante smiled, but only briefly, and went on eating.

‘No, really!’ Vida went on. ‘I’ve been reading stuff all morning. The L’Vars were a noble house, once, and we come from the first settlers. They always had an interpreter on their staff, because they received guests from all over the Pinch, and they did business on Souk. One of these days, Samante, we’ll be great again, and then I’ll have a new factor, and you’ll have a staff of experts under you.’

Samante brushed crumbs from her lap, then looked up with a fixed smile.

‘Is that a promise, Se Vida?’

‘Of course it is, Chief Interpreter.’

‘Then thank you, and I’ll accept the post with your family and house. Oh God, I’m afraid to laugh - I’ll start crying if I do.’

‘Don’t laugh. I’m serious. I had a Garang bodyguard once who told me that I was destined for great things. They always say Garang can tell.’

‘Well, that’s true, so they do. Very well. Thank you, Se Vida. I’d best start filling in, then, until you can hire that real factor.’ She sighed, got up, and looked at the mess round her chair. ‘And the first thing I’d better do is get us a servant. And a proper suite. You’ll have to tell me how much I can spend for it.’

‘Okay. I’ve got that all figured out, actually. I went on studying while you were gone. I was raised to be good with money, you know.’

‘Yes? Well, yes, I suppose you were.’ Samante brushed a few more crumbs from her plain grey dress. ‘You know what the worst thing was, Vida?’

‘No, what?’

‘Wilso told me he was doing this for my own good.’ Samante looked up on the edge of a snarl. ‘So I didn’t have to deal with all those aliens, he said. He just couldn’t stand to have his lawniece being forced to associate with Leps.
Forced
to! I hope he - I hope he gets Kephalon Plague and rots!’

* * *

Every master of the Map could access it without being physically at guild headquarters, and for Hi it was easier than most. After he’d left the Security Admin building, he’d realized that he simply could not face people he knew without some time to himself. Since Jevon had set up Rico’s investiture ceremony for later that day, there would be guests, a lot of guests and all of them important. He returned to the compound, told Barra the news - Rico was still asleep - then went to his office, a small but soundproof room down a corridor just off the gather.

For a moment he stood in the middle of the room and tried to remember what he was doing there. All around him were his familiar things: his desk, made of black wood shipped all the way from Belie; a scatter of brightly coloured rugs on the tile floor; a pair of tinted engravings hanging on one wall. On the desk stood a set of holocubes displaying pictures of Arno and Rico at various young ages, a two-foot high brass statuette of a severely stylized Garang warrior, and a scatter of storage cubes, filled with guild business. The statuette, ancient and fabulously expensive, had been a parting gift from Arno’s mother, Celise, when their contract had expired. He couldn’t remember what he’d given her in return. Celise. He would have to tell her about their son. He picked up the statuette, cold and hard in his hands, heavy, too, with the heft of real metal. Since Celise lived on Belie, the public news would take weeks to reach her, if indeed a small item like the death of another drug addict even made it onto one of the interplanetary news services. He could contact her through the Hypermap much faster, reach her himself and tell her as gently as possible. Not just yet. Not right now. He set the statuette down again and turned away. Guild business. The Pansect crash. Of course - that was what he was doing in his office. He sat down in his Mapstation chair and powered the unit on. Fortunately, he’d not eaten that morning. This particular jaunt on the Map was going to require drugs, and a full stomach would only be a liability. Or should he just do a quick reconnaissance?

‘Time?’

Behind his eyes the clock chip flashed numbers: just half of the nines. And the investiture was when? He couldn’t remember. He glanced at the screen on the wall.

‘Daily schedule. Search on investiture and plans.’

Jevon’s image appeared, smiling, dressed in the blue dress she’d worn the day before. In the corner of the screen a spiral icon whirled, marking the image as a recording.

‘Patron Jons, I’ve set the time of the investiture at the twelves. The refreshments will be served at the thirteens. Afterward, there will be a newsgrid interview for you and Rico, but I’ve yet to choose a bid from the competing stations. After -’

‘Stop. Clear.’

So, the thing started at the twelves; he’d better be ready before that. Details, there were always details. So what kind of time did he have now? For some reason this minor decision, this everyday judgment, seemed impossibly difficult. Did he have enough time to tank himself up on cyberdrugs or not? Come on, Jons, he told himself. What’s so wrong?

And then, of course, he remembered. His only child lay not merely dead but mutilated. He made himself think of Arno’s face - if he was going to cry, he’d better get it over with. For months he’d been acting out an elaborate charade about Arno, that he was as good as dead, that he was disowned, gone, out of his father’s life forever. He would need to keep the act up now. In the monitor he could see a ghost of his own face, slack-mouthed, the hair rumpled in six directions. He’d never combed it, he assumed. But no tears, no feeling of tears. Shock. He was in shock. That had to be it.

There remained the Map and the Candle. No drugs, not now. If he was in shock, he couldn’t handle them. That decision at least he could make. He leaned back, pulling up his shirt-sleeve, and laid his cyberarm over the connector plates on the chair with the familiar tremor of electricity through his system. All at once it seemed that he had many eyes and many fields of vision, many ears and many voices to hear, each perfectly meaningful and clear. When he shut his physical eyes, it seemed he floated on this sea of data, all red and yellow, silver and black, fields of numbers, lists of words, readout and input from twenty different regulators on the Map. After so many years, his brain had adapted to the Map, had perhaps even become part of the Map, but at the least had grown the pathways it needed to integrate all his chips and implants into itself. The cyberdrugs contained various synthetic hormones that encouraged the growth of axions and neurons within the brain, allowing it to develop new pathways in response to new functions. After all, what was the brain but patterning and relationship, a constantly adapting field of memory and sensory input? Like all masters, Hi now had a consciousness different than that of any normal human being. His brain had adapted to new senses and built the delicate webs of memory it needed to operate them. Route marks, for instance - he only needed to subvocalize ‘route marks’ to see them, long lists and trails, words and diagrams not so much side by side as co-mingled. He received sensory impressions that were both words and diagrams at the same time in a way that something as linear as speech could never describe. The numbers, though, were different, listing down a field in his brain beside the word-diagram constructs. By subvocalizing he could change the field to read back in time, back to the day before -early, when Rico was heading toward Pansect Media. He could also move the field in space to centre around Pansect’s Map address. Route marks and routes appeared, heading to and from, bypassing, but always the number code contained Pansect’s three-digit ID. The Chameleon Gate had left no trace; neither had anyone else but Pansect employees - unless of course this rogue master had managed to disguise himself as a Pansect employee. Those cheaper operations could get pretty lax about security.